


I'll Walk You Home

by lavenderbread



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Smoking, but just incase, maybe a drunken smooch, more being momentarily scared that he just exposed his feelings, sid being respectful, sullivan absolutely abandoning all professionalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25049728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderbread/pseuds/lavenderbread
Summary: Sid makes a bet with Sullivan and loses (on purpose).
Relationships: Sid Carter/Inspector Sullivan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	I'll Walk You Home

**Author's Note:**

> Set before they really know each other....
> 
> This has been in my abandoned fic folder for a hot while, so thank you to the wonderful fellow Father Brown tumblrs for encouraging me to post it after leaving tags on [this post.](https://fatherr-brown.tumblr.com/post/622570274053931008/sunflowersdaisies-blackthxrntree)  
> I'm still not entirely happy with it, their dynamic doesn't come across quite right (which is annoying because there's SO MUCH POTENTIAL of where this could have gone), and almost didn't post, but I don't have the motivation to perfect it at the moment so please enjoy this beta version!
> 
> I haven't seen anything with this plot but if I've accidentally stolen anyone's idea/work please let me know.
> 
> Sorry this notes section has become longer than anticipated, I'll shut up now!
> 
> Have a wonderful day!

Sid sat on the bench outside of the Red Lion, bouncing his leg incessantly as he downed the last of his pint. He was waiting for Sullivan to show up once he had finished his shift at the station. The plan arose from a bet that Sid made with the Inspector over a horse race, which happened to be airing over the wireless as they waited for Sergeant Goodfellow to fetch the possessions taken upon his arrest.

***

"I'm no expert," Sullivan had said as one of the commentators announced their prediction, "but I know enough about racing to know that Cromwell is not winning this one."

"Alright then," Sid dared, knowing full well that the chances of Cromwell winning were small (it was no secret that he had yet to finish in the first three), "if he loses, drinks are on me tonight, The Red Lion." Sid was surprised at his own boldness. A sense of panic rose in his stomach - _did that sound too forward?_ \- but the rational side of his brain kicked in; to anyone else, it wouldn't seem like that. Even so, Sid didn't expect to be taken up on this offer; he could hardly assume that Sullivan saw him as more than a bothersome acquaintance, no matter how his own feelings were inclined.

He hadn't known the Inspector for long, but Sid had been involved in enough of Father Brown's meddling in police affairs since Sullivan's arrival to realise that he enjoyed his company rather more than he could have predicted. It was something about his city demeanour - immaculate and uptight - which was refreshingly unfamiliar in Kembleford, and evidently impossible to ignore.

The Inspector debated for a few moments before agreeing. Sid supposed it must have been the fact he was in a particularly sociable mood that day, or perhaps it was because it was his last shift of the week and going out was preferable to returning to an empty home. Either way, Sid wasn't complaining.

"Alright Carter. You're on." He turned up the volume as the race began. Sid smiled softly as he watched Sullivan. There was a small knit in his brow, lips pursing subtly as he listened with more anticipation than he usually bothered with when it came to horse racing. _Come on_ Sid silently willed for the horse to fail. Then, all of a sudden:

"And Cromwell has fallen! What a turn of events!"

Sid puffed out his cheeks and leant back in the chair in defeat, feigning disappointment.

"Well," Sullivan said, rocking on his toes with proud satisfaction, "I'll be seeing you there then, drinks on you."

"Fair enough," Sid surrendered. As if on queue Sergeant Goodfellow returned with Sid's belongings.

"Thank you Sergeant," he said, nodding at the Inspector as he left the station, not noticing the way that Sullivan's eyes followed him out of the room.

***

Now there he was, waiting anxiously for the Inspector to turn up.

Sid smelt Sullivan before he saw him, his distinctive, familiar cologne carrying on the breeze.

"Carter," he greeted. Sid rose from his seat, then stood awkwardly, not quite knowing what to say or do.

"Alright?" was all he could come up with. Sullivan looked at him, mild amusement glittering in his eyes.

"I wouldn't mind a drink," he suggested, taking off his hat.

"'Course," Sid replied, turning to go inside (fast enough that the Inspector wouldn't be able to see the flush rising in his face). As he ordered the drinks, Sullivan claimed a free booth in the corner of the pub. "Here we are," he said, placing a couple of pints on the table. Regardless of the fact that he believed Sullivan had only turned up to uphold the terms of the bet, Sidney was not about to pass up the chance to see the uppermost member of Kembleford's police force absolutely intoxicated.

Conversation came surprisingly easy - they certainly had a lot to talk about. Sullivan was evasive when it came to talking about his personal life, but Sid could deduce from the way he acted (and from what little things he did reveal) that they had been through similar circumstances. He thought of Father Brown as he began to wonder if it might just be divine intervention that they had both ended up in Kembleford.

***

Time slipped by, the bright blue afternoon sky mellowing into the soft orange of sunset, and a cluster of empty glasses accumulated at the end of the table. Sid belched.

"I'm just gonna nip to the gents," he said, only realising when he stood up quite how much he had had to drink. He splashed his face with cold water and slurped some out of the tap in a feeble attempt to sober up a bit.

He returned to the table only to see how worse for wear Sullivan really looked, slouched in the booth. _Had he looked like that before, or was he only just noticing it now?_ At some point, the Red Lion had become too warm - Sullivan had removed his tie, the top couple of buttons of his shirt were undone, and his face was covered in a barely noticeable glaze of perspiration. The normally pristinely-fixed hair flopped over his face and his eyes looked lazy with drunkenness. In fact, he looked absolutely exhausted. Perhaps it was time to head home.

"We should head off soon," Sid suggested. Sullivan tipped back his head, finishing off his whiskey, and tried to stand. Either the pub was spinning, or his head was.

"Woah," he laughed, leaning on the table for a moment. Sid wasn't sure he had ever heard Sullivan laugh before, but it was the most wonderful sound, and he felt himself, in that exact moment, fall totally and utterly in love with him. Sullivan shuffled out of the booth and they headed out into the warmth of the summer evening, stopping to light a cigarette.

"P'raps I should walk you home," offered Sid, watching the Inspector sway slightly on his feet.

"I... am not telling you where I live, Sidney Carter," he protested, prodding his chest. Sid had to stifle a laugh; Sullivan had abandoned all professionalism, his usual restrained composure deserted in exchange for lack of inhibition.

"Well, I'm not letting you walk home like this. You'll have to come back to mine."

"Careful," he said, almost suggestively, "I might think you're trying to get on my good side."

The comment hurt slightly, Sid didn't want it to be a joke, but he couldn't blame Sullivan for adding salt to a wound that he probably didn't even know was open. "I wouldn't dare," - _I most certainly would dare_ \- "come on."

At some point on the way, Sullivan had taken hold of Sid's arm. _Only to balance himself_ Sid reasoned.

***

"Well, this is my humble abode," Sid said once they reached the front door of his caravan. Sullivan looked up at him unwaveringly, the orange evening sun giving his eyes a roguish glimmer.

"You know, Carter," he declared, "you are actually rather handsome." Sid felt the heat turning his cheeks red. He was caught completely off guard, and any attempts at a response tripped out of his mouth in an incoherent stutter. But he didn't have to say anything before Sullivan reached up to kiss him. His lips were precise and confident, and Sid found himself holding him as he leaned into it, feeling as if he had been waiting for that moment for a long time.

They parted, and looked at each other for what could have been minutes, so obviously enamoured. As the pull of reality dragged him back to his senses, Sid cleared his throat and unlocked the door, gesturing at Sullivan to enter (a habit of being a cheauffer), following him inside. 

"Do you, uh, want a drink," Sid asked, all of a sudden awkward and bashful, fumbling clumsily for a mug. He turned around to see that the Inspector had taken a seat on the edge of his bed, and he patted the duvet as an invitation for Sid to come and sit by him. As he took a seat, Sullivan reached his hand across to hold Carter's, testing the waters of physical affection with an endearing and inexperienced immaturity - he knew how to kiss, but this wasn't something he was used to.

It felt nice to just sit there in that moment, to feel each others heat shoulder to shoulder. Sid didn't mind the timid moves on behalf of Sullivan; he had had to figure it out at one point in his life too. Emboldened again with the same Dutch courage that had overcome him outside, the Inspector leant over to plant his lips on Sid's neck. Sid closed his eyes and let him, tempted to give in completely, but in the back of his head a voice was saying _it's not fair_. The last thing he wanted was for Sullivan to do something he would regret later; the whole situation seemed too good to be true.

"Wait," he said, jumping up, rubbing the back of his neck instinctively. "Sorry, it's not you, I'm- I like you, I _really_ like you. Oh god I'm sorry. I- uh... shouldn't we keep a professional relationship. You know, with you locking me up on the regular and whatnot-" he forced a chuckle.

"It's alright," Sullivan laughed. _God, that was such a wonderful sound_. He flopped back on the bed. "Carter, I've wanted to do that for so long," he said, closing his eyes, and almost straight away his breathing become slower and deeper as he succumbed to sleep.

***

Sid woke up on the floor. It took a few moments to remember why, but as the events of the previous evening came rushing back, a warmth spread across his chest. He sat up, squinting at the morning sun which filtered through his curtains (and seemed all too bright for Sid's liking). Nursing his head, which throbbed dully, Sid glanced over to the bed and realised that the Inspector was not there. Part of him expected this, but the involuntary plunging ache of disappointment sank his heart nonetheless.

Standing up (ignoring the wave of nausea crashing in his stomach), he could see that Sullivan had made the bed, but there was a small piece of paper sitting atop the sheets, torn from his notebook. Sid picked it up tentatively.

_Dear Carter,_ \- almost every variation of his name had been written and crossed out -  
_I'm not entirely sure how you managed to get me to drink so much last night - it seems I am out of practice in such matters, and I suppose I must thank you for escorting me and lending me your bed.  
I apologise if my forwardness unsettled you, but I like you Sidney, more than perhaps others think a man should like another man, and if it isn't overstepping, I should like to see you again (without quite so much alcohol).  
Best regards,  
Your Inspector Sullivan._

Sid smiled. The letter was formal - short - comically different from the daring immodesty of the previous evening, and full of indecisive scribbles. Though he needn't have been so reserved had he known how relieved Sid was to know that Sullivan's actions were genuine and conscious, not a drunken whim.

Turning to check the door, Sid noticed that Sullivan had left his hat behind on the hook, almost certainly not where it was placed last night. _Smartass._ Now he would have to see him again.


End file.
